Unbidden

In slow, yellow light

before toddlers creep,

magnolia blossoms look in at me

dead on

through broken slats in mini-blind.

Today they burst.

First spring for us in this aged home

botanic flesh thrusts open.

Thick petals pushed forward to be squeezed

and bruised,

edges turning brown at the mercy of little hands.

but on the tree plump,
soft pink,

  delicate white.

Jumping for the branches and landing with fists full,

we galloped and shoved our way to lunch.

Lenten rice bowls and solemn purple Fridays

gave way to light and warmth.

Tote bags for long "a" and hard "g."

Handwriting practice.

Bowl haircut smacked forehead,

as I ran the bases in kickball.

Blue, double-knit choir robes,

and "It Only Takes a Spark" to acoustic guitar.

"I believe in Mary Worth" screamed into bathroom mirrors

on a dare.

Parochial girls melded.

Unbidden.

Grabbing, grappling, claiming.

Watching, pushing, pulling.

Finally releasing,
breathing.

Endocrine calmed and heads certain.

Mellowed.

Aged.

Our magnolias bloomed today.

My sisters are here.

In my eyes, and my nose.

In the air.

My neighbor's tree.

Juicy crisp, velvet soft petals

will fall to cider smell.

But this breath is first.

Awake.

First written and mailed to a friend spring 2005 without time for editing. 

This is the revised form, surely in need of further work, still.